


Our Souls

by luxorar



Series: Our Souls AU [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics
Genre: A Lot of These Tags Are Eventual, Ableist Language, Abrahamic Religions - Freeform, Aliens, Alternate Timelines, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood & Gore, Character Death, DC Omniverse, Early 1900s to Modern Day, Extensive Use of OCs, F/F, F/M, Family & Friendships, Fourth Wall (Sort Of), Having Enemies is Not Fun, Headcanons & Worldbuilding, Heroic Joker, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Interspecies Relationship(s), LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic-Users, Martial Arts, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Neopronouns, Neurodiversity, Nonhuman/Hybrid Characters, Obsessive Behavior, Pagan Gods, Period-Typical Racism, Personal Growth, Pining, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Reincarnation, Self-Harm, Shapeshifting, Torture, Trauma, War, Weird Biology, alcohol & drugs, different cultures, longfic, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxorar/pseuds/luxorar
Summary: It all starts when an ordinary girl is kidnapped by a fifth-dimensional imp messing with things and people he ought not to. Mister Mxyzptlk gets his laughs pranking Superman -- the girl was just an unwilling part of his latest plot that has such far-reaching consequences, not even the cosmos' wisest knows where they will end. The girl can't return to the reality she came from. She died and reincarnated and doesn't even recognize herself. Her name is not her name."...our souls may be consumed by shadows, but that doesn't mean we have to behave as monsters."- Emm Cole.
Relationships: Batman/Catwoman, Batman/Joker, Batman/Talia al-Ghul, Bruce Wayne/Various, Harley Quinn/Joker, John Constantine/Nick Necro/Zatanna Zatara, Joker/Matches Malone, Joker/OC, Liana Kerzner/Knockout/Scandal Savage, OC/Canon - Relationship, OC/OC
Series: Our Souls AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087076
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. The Start

**Author's Note:**

> I would like constructive criticism/critique, please, if you can think of anything. Otherwise, just a simple *thumbs up* "Good work!" or kudos would be great. I've been working on this story since 2018, hence why the story starts in the past, in that darker time of my life, and not the better present-day of early October 2020 (the date I'm first posting this). 
> 
> I fully intend on finishing this fanfic, even if it takes me years. It's pretty personal to me by this point. Hats off to all my friends and acquaintances over Discord who helped me figure this fic out! They still are really. Words cannot describe how much I appreciate y'all. Sorry that this beginning note is so long.
> 
> \-- Update, Dec. 30th 2020:// This fic is currently being rewritten as a fourth draft. Sorry for my (unfortunately very characteristic) indecision. Hope you stick around!
> 
> \-- Update, Jan. 6th, 2021:// Changed the tag "DC Multiverse" to "DC Omniverse," since post- _Death Metal_ things in DC canon have [changed drastically](https://www.gamesradar.com/the-new-dc-universe-explained/). Also I've changed the title from _Multiversity is Diversity_ to something I like better.

It's cold outside.

And quiet.

It's sometime after three AM, in late October.

My antidepressants have intense side effects. It might be enough to spark a panic attack in me, but not yet; all I have are restless feet and hot, itching pinpricks in my arms. They look like little red dots. I guess that means I'm having an allergic reaction, but I'm also pretty sure the only solution my doctor will come up with is to throw more pills at me. I can't tell if he's just incompetent or he really believes he's helping me. Or both.

My sleeping schedule is screwed, too, so I slept all day long and feel like I have to stay up all night and early morning. The fervent need to pace back-and-forth overwhelmed me, and I woke up my dad to try convincing him to take a walk with me outside, and for nearly three whole minutes all he does is grumble, growl, and protest. Yesterday night around eleven PM I'd done this same exact thing. It had escalated into a raised voice from him and tearful begging on my part. It didn't quite reach that desperate point this morning.

I know it's unfair of me to ask him to get onto his feet at this ungodly hour, and I can't honestly give you a logical reason why I feel like utter shit unless I go for a walk. I just need to get outside. If I managed to remain awake during the day, I'd probably want to walk then, too. I try not to talk much as we head out the door because whatever I say will most likely be a complaint about my life, or him. He has a habit of making everything about him whenever I try to describe how horrible I feel. Like I'm pointing out his failures.

And he'll say, with some kind of tone that I can't decide is sarcastic, despairing, or what,  _ "Yeah, I'm such a bad dad. I'm a horrible person. I'm a failure of a father." _

It always goes back to that. It's like talking to a wall. He will never understand. He's too selfish.

I'm suicidal enough as it is. I don't need to hear it.

This is not an ideal time to be outside of your own home, on the streets, especially on foot. I am a young woman, twenty-two years old, and five feet and five inches tall, barely a hundred and twenty-something pounds. It is not hard to hurt me. My dad would never let anyone try, though he's hurt me himself a few times. Mostly verbally. Sometimes physically. He shoved me across the room once, and the back of my head had slammed into the wall. All because I was in the throes of a panic attack and lost my mind enough to try hitting him, and scream at him that I wished superheroes would come and save me.

He screamed right back at me that superheroes aren't real and aren't coming. Then, he walked over, plopped himself back into his computer desk chair, and resumed his MMO games, Netflix, and porn. Like nothing happened. Like I wasn't openly sobbing like a baby with colic and hitting myself in the face with self-hatred.

Yesterday night, during our previous walk, a man had driven up to us in a beat-up old car and asked if I was for sale. Dad responded firmly I was not and told him to fuck off. My dad has goodness in him, he does. He just is also blind to his own faults as a—as a bat.

Batman is my favorite superhero. I have turned to comic books a lot this past year to make me feel any measure of joy because they're the only thing that works anymore. I have schizoaffective mood-swings and can swing from enraged, to despondence, to laughter in the span of three minutes. I'm always stuck in my own head, daydreaming about  _ DC Comics _ characters with the Bat at center stage. The manic happiness occurs more often when I think of him. I wish he was real. I wish he would come and beat my dad and spell out for him why he's fucked up.

Make him change.

I don't have a job, I rely on SSI checks monthly. I'm actually legally  _ not allowed _ to get a job or else I'll lose those checks. It's helped us financially, and we'd probably be homeless like we were for two years when I was nineteen to age twenty without it. I still regret it, because I don't have a life outside of this apartment I share with my dad. No friends. Relatives that barely ever contact us. My mom calls when she can afford to pay for her phone, which is an occasional bright spot. My parents divorced when I was eight.

I probably can't get a job anyway, even if I dropped my SSI. I have no high school diploma or even GED, my dad got so sick of me trying to avoid high school that he dropped me out of tenth grade. I keep bringing up to him that I ought to try getting into adult education classes, but he essentially ignores me. I don't know how to drive, but he does. He's my payee, too, so I can't manage my own SSI money. There's no way for me to do  _ anything _ unless he wants to do it. And he never wants to do  _ anything. _

I am stuck.

I dwell on all of this bullshit as we walk side-by-side in silence down the street. He's groggy and grouchy. I can feel my heart pound quickly in my chest. I  _ really _ don't want it to escalate into palpitations. Those are painful as hell. During my first and second panic attacks, I literally thought I was dying. I breathe in through my nose and out my mouth. My chest will  _ not _ constrict. I will  _ not _ get drowsy—something that happens to me at the onset of an attack—and then wake up suddenly to chills and the urge to scream my lungs out. I know the signs. I  _ will _ avoid them if I possibly can.

I've told Dad before of half-baked plans to off myself, usually by jumping out in front of a moving car. He always calls those plans fucking stupid. I know he does care, in his own way. He tried to choke me a few months ago because I put the sharp end of a kitchen knife at my wrist. I don't like remembering it.

Why am I thinking of this? Stop. I'm just making myself more upset. Stop-stop-stop.

I'm whispering it, under my breath.

"Stop-stop-stop…"

And, uncannily, everything stops. 

An autumn leaf wisping through the breeze halts midair. The breeze itself stops moving. My dad's footfalls go quiet and he freezes in place, unblinking.

"Daddy?" I squawk.

The dead quiet is so complete and eerie.

I immediately am afraid. I skip the confusion.

My paranoid, irrational brain, hyped up on the fact this is so near Halloween, and thus full of scary imagery and spooky notions, convinces itself that this is either a very in-depth nightmare, an extreme mental break, or a supernatural event. I don't like either possibility. At all.

"You really  _ do _ look like her."

The suddenness of the animated voice makes me flinch.

"It's too bad you're nothing alike!"

I drag my eyes in the voice’s direction, and...stare.

It’s a little man. He’s got to be shorter than me, and he’s levitating a few feet above me. He has white, balding hair and smile lines. Somehow, in the darkness around us, with nothing but dim streetlamps illuminating everything, he’s very bright and visible. It makes no sense—there are no sources of light shining on him from anywhere. His aura practically vibrates with unnatural life. Something about him is  _ wrong, _ he shouldn’t  _ be  _ here. Despite that, he opens his mouth again, exposing gleaming white rows of small teeth, and exclaims.

“For instance, by now she would’ve demanded to know what has been done. A brave one, she is. Not very quick on the uptake, are ya?”

He’s insulting me. In my pounding fear, I let it go.

Is this even real? Am I awake? I reach out and tug on my dad’s jacket sleeve. He doesn’t budge.

God, please let this pass soon. I don’t want to be this kind of all-consuming crazy. Everything is going to be fine. Just, just close my eyes shut—

“Hell _ ooo _ , anybody there?”

The little man is rapping his knuckles on my forehead, rudely. I shake my head violently to deter him. He pulls his hand away with a frown.

The hallucination should not be so real that it can  _ touch _ me.

He looks kind of like Mister Mxyzptlk from Superman stories. Whatever supernatural entity is messing with my mind, they must be using my obsession with comic books against me. Superman is my second favorite  _ DC  _ character after Batman.

“Go  _ away!” _ I burst out. It comes out merely whining, with none of the visceral unreality I’m experiencing. My voice is small, childish. It always has been, but it’s never been more obvious than it is right now.

“No can do, missy! I’ve got  _ plans _ for you…fun ones! Ones meant to trifle with a big lump of a friend of mine!”

“Ple…” I begin to beg, but the sound dies in my throat as the first hint of something nearly grim and serious enters the little man’s countenance.

He says, only, “You’re in for a bumpy ride.”

Reality warps. The black starless sky directly in my line of sight  _ opens up _ , impossibly, more astounding than any amount of CGI animation could ever accomplish. I can’t look away from it. It might be hurting my vision just to witness it, but I’m transfixed. For a lulling moment, as I’m going increasingly blank, there  _ is _ one last sensation. The little man’s hand, grabbing my arm, and dragging me forward after him into the rip. Later I will wish I had turned my head and gotten one last look at my dad. The lull was a lie, a precursor to the pure hellishness that is next. Colors warp in the entirety of the rainbow, but it’s also monochrome, everything is noise, but it’s also so, so quiet, nothing is real but at the same time it all unmercifully  _ is. _

\--

There are endless universes.

I can see only a fraction of them.

It’s like holding them in my hand, half 3D model, half encyclopedia with dates labeled and events pinned. A planner for the DC Multiversity, crammed into my skull, hollowing out my other thoughts and pushing my sense of self to the side without care. Who am I without this knowledge? Who was I ever? It feels like I’m nothing at all compared to the vastness of what I know, pain between my eyes, down to my jaw as if someone’s reached into my brain cavity, and stretched it out like taffy.

Sleep. I want to sleep. And maybe when I get up again, it’ll hurt less. Like a migraine wearing off. No. That won’t help. Nothing will help. Was I paranoid before? Of course, I was. Seems paltry now, with all this overwhelming amount of information vying for attention about everything that could and has and will and might go wrong. I’m shaking, clutching at myself as if to pull my head into a bigger shape, I use the pain on my scalp, of my teeth digging into my lip, to ground me as I quietly go insane trying not to think about anything at all.

There is no time to scream. There is no time, in the first place. I don’t know why I ever thought it existed. But for  _ them… _ the people I know of. They live linearly. Over-and-over again with different faces, but always the same tragedies, at least nearly the same names, not always the same reactions. Some of them go wrong. Just as many go right. What is wrong or right?  _ My _ idea of how they should be, just because I’ve read their stories multiple times in fiction. My Earth of origin wasn’t—isn’t—even the only Earth that knew them as fictional characters. There are countless others, just like there are realms where they’re corporeal and breathing—

My universe…is forgetting me. There’s no other way to put it. Being taken from it in this manner has rendered it unstable, and so, it erased all trace of me from itself as a form of automatic self-maintenance. I become aware that I am the only one left from  _ that _ specific timestream of  _ that _ Earth that has any comprehension I ever lived. No, wait, not just me. Me…and the little man.

He doesn’t recall it as I do. He only saw me in that life for a moment.

I can feel my insides transforming. More than my guts and blood and bones, it's my actual  _ soul,  _ it's…

Solidifying.

We've reached the little man's native universe. I can’t tell its number designation in the Multiversity. I think that’s because it wasn’t created by Alpheus the World-Forger like the rest of them...this universe didn't  _ exist  _ before I got here. It only exists now  _ because _ the little man brought me here. Retroactive creation. Almost like a paradox—I am anchored here now, it needs me for it to remain stabilized. The certainty of the knowledge is surreal.

I am so incredibly small and insignificant.

Everything settles into third-dimensional simplicity again, leaving me reeling. I feel raw. The sudden bright light of day stings my eyes, and I realize my knees are touching a concrete sidewalk. There are towering glassy skyscrapers on every side of me. I've never seen a big city so empty, except in movies.

The combined information of the DC Multiverse mellows and slows gradually, leaving me room to think about what makes me myself. And I can think about it  _ all. _ From the second my earliest memories formed as a baby, I’m flooded by vivid images, smells, sensations, and sounds. It all settles together neatly, those long years of humanity. Every word I ever spoke, everything I’d ever heard, and learned. Each mistake, agony, failure, success, embarrassment, anger, and happy occasion, and much more. All of it.

I am still myself.

I even know who the little man is.

He really  _ is _ Mister Mxyzptlk. 

“Welcome to Metropolis!” He grins at me, “Not that there’s anyone else here to greet you, at the moment.”

“Why?” I croak, pitifully. “Why me?”

Cheerfully oblivious, he answers, “I told you, girl—well, I suppose I didn’t go very  _ in-depth, _ now did I?”

“No,” I blurt out, irritated, and playing along. Hoping he’ll explain.

“It’s because you’re nearly the spitting image of this reality’s Lois Lane! Superman will be  _ sure _ to be fooled.”

That throws me. I know for a fact my appearance hasn't changed. I've never been anyone's “spitting image,” except for that one girl back in elementary school everyone mistook me for. Lois Lane must be ugly. I've never liked myself.

_ You’re a reality-bender. Couldn’t you have done this literally any other way? Are you going to return me home after this? _

But there’s nothing left for me to return to any longer. There’s a sinking pit in my stomach as I realize it. The words don’t come up my throat fast enough, because he turns away from me, chirping, “I’d best be on my way! Plans don’t ruin themselves.” And he vanishes.

I think  _ ruin _ was meant to be a joke. Or maybe I just can't understand the way he thinks.

I am left alone. A crushing wave of despair washes over me. Everything and everyone I'd ever known and loved has been lost, suddenly and unfairly. I cannot regain any of it, or them. All of my memories and life experiences mean nothing.

Do I belong _ here,  _ now, then?

I've been tied here inextricably due to Mxyzptlk. The other iterations of him aren't such irresponsible fools...I think. Causing something so huge, that affects his whole reality, just for the sake of a prank on an alien superhero. Maybe this was all meant to happen somehow. I've started unconsciously rocking back-and-forth like I always do when I'm anxious or thinking very hard. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I might be pulling at straws in desperation to soothe myself. I hope I'm right. I hope this is Fate.

(It is.)

(That doesn't mean Fate is kind.)

There are several long beats of silence.

I hear the subtle sounds of a moving vehicle and look to my right, where the sidewalk meets the road. There’s a big white van pulling up beside me.

It’s parking.

A dark feeling settles over me as grim-faced people step out of it. These are the first people I’ve seen since Mxyzptlk. I ogle them, wide-eyed.

A man and a woman. They advance on me and the woman grabs me roughly by the arm, dragging me to my feet. The man has sunken black eyes that gleam smugly. He seems like he plays the part of the bastard and does it well. The woman is unexpectedly pretty. The pitiless cold in her eyes and the remorselessness of the set of her jaw undermine her looks. At once, I don’t like either of them.

They blindfold me and tie my hands tightly behind my back, without a word.

The man quickly opens the backdoors of the van and the woman tosses me inside, unceremoniously. I stumble and land on my knees. The doors slam shut behind me.

I can’t see a damn thing. 

What seems like an eternity of horrible, uncertain silence seeps into my bones. What are they doing out there? The anxiety rises and ebbs like waves.

Nothing happens.

My train of thought drifts.

_ This can't be part of Mister Mxyzptlk's plan, can it? _

I doubt it. I think something went awry. But I can't be sure.

The engine starts.

My entire nervous body jerks at the noise.

Who knows how many miles the van travels until it stops.

\--

The van's backdoors open abruptly. I'm fighting off the urge to babble aloud,  _ WhoAreYou,  _ and  _ WhyMeWhyMe,  _ but it's beaten down by a sixth sense that I'll be smacked or snapped at for talking. I've done this quite a bit in my life, catching myself just before doing or saying something thoughtlessly.

Someone grabs me again—I can’t tell which one—and I am brought outside the van. As my feet make contact with the ground, there’s a bite of chill on my skin. Dank, city smells.

_ Where are all the superheroes?  _ I think out of the blue. Some of my fearfulness wanes. Of course. Superheroes exist now. There's a high chance that I'll be rescued. And that's just a fact.

Right?

...We've been sitting here in silence for too long a minute.  _ Why aren’t we moving? _

“You know,” the man abruptly speaks up, breaking the dense quiet, “It shouldn't surprise me. I  _ saw _ your shoulders ease. You're _ deluded  _ if you think you're going to be saved.”

It’s like he can read my mind. Unnerved, I tense up once more.

At least he didn’t hit me.

I breathe in.

I hear the sound of his fist coming down on my head before I truly understand what’s happened. I’m too stunned. As it painfully dawns on me that I’ve been struck, I cringe. It sounded like a gunshot, to me.

“Quit playing around,” the woman admonishes.

The man snickers, inspiring new levels of helplessness within me, but we start walking. My head is throbbing and aching. Tears well, hot, in my eyes yet again at the unfairness of this all. I hate it. I hate them. I want to go home.

I have no home.

I can hear more doors being opened, and one of my feet steps in something wet.

We come to a halt. The blindfold is torn off me. 

Then, I am  _ shoved.  _ Hard.

"Ah!" I cry, my first utterance since Mxyzptlk.

There’s a small box before me, not even half my height.

“Shut up,” the man barks, harshly. That's all he says, working at pressing me inside the box. The box's side is open, revealing a tiny space. I can't—they can't possibly expect me to—   
  
He's not giving up. His callused hands touch violating places as I am squeezed into the box and I can't do anything about it. I cry out again. He's bending me in uncomfortable ways to  _ force _ me to fit.  _ Get your fucking hands off me! _

This goes on for an excruciating while. I am suffering.

Eventually, the rushed beating of my own heart in my throat, and the pain in my limbs, the discomfort in my back and neck. It’s too much. I think I’m gonna pass out. It's cramped in here. I can feel my own moist, warm breath. Oh god. Let me out of here. My head is between my knees. I can feel the pressure of metal on the crown of my head, on the sides of my knees as they press into the walls. I gasp through tears. I want to wipe away the tears but I can't move whatsoever. Hysterical, I wriggle and writhe but there's no escaping.

There's just no way out of this.

I keep staring out the corner of my eyes at my left side, where the box had been opened up before. Silently waiting for it to be opened up again.

It isn't being opened up again.

My palms are sweaty.

It hasn't even been two minutes inside the box.

\--

I can't think.

Increasingly, I can't breathe.

Am I actually  _ running out _ of oxygen?

I'm too young to die.

\--

I rummage through my collective knowledge of the DC Universe in a feeble attempt to decide which character will save me from this.

Daddy was right. They’ll never come.

\--

I...can't...breathe…

If dying makes this lack of air go away, then let me die.

\--

In Gotham, the clouds are gray and foreboding. It's midday, and Batman's received an alarming message, impossibly hacked into his comms, from an unknown individual who'd sneered into his ears.

_ “In an abandoned warehouse in the eastern docks, you'll find my minions and a dead girl in a box. They used a white van. Be quick.” _

Dismissive. Expectant. No concern.

It takes Batman far too long to track down the parked white van that was used. It takes less time to enter the warehouse. The two minions go down easily. Without a fight.

There's no telling how long the girl's been in there, and Batman wastes no time cracking the box's code and pulling her out. She's limp.

He holds her unbreathing body close. Her face is coated with dried tears.

Another failure. Another loss of life.

Whoever did this will  _ pay. _


	2. The Figure

I was twenty-two when I died.

Gasping for air and choking.

For a long, eerie moment, I can still feel phantoms of the aching pain of being crammed into that box. I swear I think I'm still there, and then…

A wet cloth is delicately brushed across my forehead. I open my eyes, see a ceiling first. I turn my head a little to my right. The hand holding the cloth is wrinkled and feminine. I find myself saying, in Spanish, in a young voice I don't recognize as my own: _“Abuela?”_

I am changed from what I once was. I'm not twenty-two anymore.

I am...a child.

I am acutely conscious of this. I have died and am reborn in a new body. The revelation is anticlimactic, merely like settling into a second skin. I try to dig into that knowledge and find the source of it. How did this happen? Why did this happen? I can't find the answers. It's just a fact of my new reality.

Who am I now?

“(Yes, little one. It's me,)” my grandmother replies, also in Spanish. I don't know if she's my paternal or maternal grandmother. All I know is she's lived with us since as long as my second lifetime's brain remembers, along with her husband. Her curly hair is silvered, her skin is brown and mottled with age, and her eyes are, surprisingly, a vivid green color. She smiles at me. She's sitting on a stool. I am lying on my back on a hard sofa.

“(Am I sick?)” I ask, thinking of the cloth. I do feel bad. Exhausted, clammy.

She seems pleased by my question, “(You have a fever, but you'll be fine with me here,)” she answers in a babyish voice, then crows gently to someone I can't see, “(Isn't he so smart? He's speaking so well!)”

“(Yes, and he's only two,)” an old man's voice agrees at once, proudly. I try to sit up so I can see him. There's a large wooden table a little ways away with six chairs, and my grandpa is seated in one of them. He often is sitting right in that same spot, if my handful of second-life memories aren't lying to me. He has thinning white hair, a mole on one side of his face, and bushy eyebrows. His skin is a few shades paler than his wife's, but they're both very mestizo-looking.

A thought occurs to me, “(Is Mamá here?)” I just...feel as though I need her. 

It boggles me a bit, how quickly I've become attached to this second-family, most of it happening while I wasn't aware of myself. Darkness creeps in the back of my mind. I lost my last family horribly. What will become of this new one? I dwell on it momentarily, then lose focus.

Mamá heard me ask for her, and strides into the room from a hallway, making a silly face at me as she approaches. I am entertained, reaching for her, despite a part of me grimacing at the childishness it recalls already outgrowing once before.

She sweeps me up in a hug. Her loving face is framed by curly hair, just like Abuela’s.

I like her. I might even love her like I did my first-mother.

That's not a good idea. I should be more detached, out of sheer self-preservation. But when have I ever done the wise thing? Again, phantom sensations haunt me, of unwanted hands on my person and unbreathable air. Snickering and sobbing. If I can lose everything once…

But when have I ever been wise?

I smile, even though I don't want to. I want to think critically about my new situation, figure out what to do next. That isn't going to happen—I'm two-years-old. Critical thinking is not a strong suit. They called me _he,_ too, I belatedly realize. Am I not biologically a girl anymore? Jesus Christ, I don't know how to handle this.

Abuela inquires, “(What about dinner, daughter?)” And I think that means Mamá _is_ her child, making her a maternal grandparent. I might be wrong. Maybe she just calls her daughter-in-law her own. But then again, they both have the same curly hair.

“(I've started making it…)” Mamá trails off, with a touch of embarrassment and shame, like she should've already made dinner by now, when suddenly there's a sound like a door loudly opening. Her face lights up.

A man's voice bellows into the house, which I'm starting to think is a rather small house. His voice is deep and rich, “(I am home!)” It's my second-father. Like the others, I do not know his real name. My instinct is to run up to him and hug his legs, but the fever is affecting me too much for that. 

Instead, I yell, “Papá!”

He kisses Mamá and then turns his gaze to me. He has a broad face, olive skin, and a beard. He's wearing a blue serge suit.

“(Hello, son!)” He moves forward and claps a hand on my shoulder. “(Does he still have a fever?)”

“(Yes, but less than before,)” Abuela tells him.

“(Good, good,)” he nods.

They talk about other things. Dinner, which isn't prepared yet. Mamá apologizes for that. Her husband says it's all right. She seems relieved.

Papá starts telling everyone of his day at work at the factory. He complains about the danger, and that he's treated with less respect than everyone else working there just for being Mexican. It isn't fair, because all four of the adults in this room were born in America and their families had been in this city for generations. At least he's paid the same. 

Abuelo mentions that to this day he's still surprised they never knew of Papá and his family living in this city when Mexicans tended to congregate together when isolated. There are very few Mexican families in this city, or anyone from any other country that spoke Spanish.

Papá says he doesn't know how that happened, either. All his own relatives are dead now, anyway.

 _So that's what we are,_ I think, _We're Mexican._ At least it's a culture I'm familiar with from my first lifetime, I had been Mexican from my first-mother’s side, though I hadn't known as much about it as I would've liked. My first-mother never taught me to be fluent in Spanish. But now I am incredibly fluent in comparison. That's great. It's something I always wanted.

I can feel my eyelids getting heavier.

I zone out. Fall asleep.

I'm awakened by dinnertime.

I try not to make a mess of my food and eat my greens. I manage to keep it all down in spite of being sickly. I was too feverish earlier to think of my name, but Mamá doesn't allow me to forget it, instructing me how to eat properly all the while repeating my name: _Celestino, like this._

The past life memories float inside my brain in a sort of stasis. I know they're there but they're not...activated. Perhaps that's a good thing. It's hard to be depressed when you're a toddler. I wonder when I'll truly experience all my memories again. I'm not sure I want to. There are many bad ones I'd rather not relive.

I'm put to bed after food. My dreams swim with visions of other universes, snippets of dire stakes with lives in the balance, zany tales and detective missions, and random factoids that ramble on for paragraphs and then fade to nothing. I now live in one of those insane worlds.

(I'm not sure I'll survive it.)

\--

The next day, my fever is long gone.

Mamá is in the kitchen and Papá is at work for the day. Abuelo and Abuela sleep all morning till noon. I have too much energy for that. I guess since they're so old they've earned the right to sleep in every day. Mamá never bothers them during that time. I had been a sort of marginal history buff for the 1900s in my last life, and I know it's rare for people to live as old as my grandparents have in this day and age. They're given respect.

We have a tall mirror in the master bedroom, my parents' room, that I waddle over to as soon as I discover it exists so I can get a good look at myself. My new self. The sight isn't of the short woman with dark, buzzed hair I'm used to seeing. Instead, there's a _massive_ mop of dark-brown, thick curly hair on my head, almost like an afro. Brown skin like Mamá and Abuela, and bright green eyes like Abuela too. I am a _shrimp._ I can't wait to grow into an adult again.

This is where I stay, memorizing my new appearance. Eventually, however, I grow bored and move to the living room-slash-dining room once more.

Past noon and my grandparents are finally awake. Mamá is talking with them about things at the table. Otherwise, it's pretty quiet in the room. I’ve climbed onto the sofa again, staring into nothing. I see Abuela glance at me from time to time, and I wonder if the family finds me a strange child. I have toys, and I ought to go get them. That would be the Normal Kid Thing to do. The toys are in a wooden container—that Abuelo likes to remind me he made just for me—with a lid that's effortless for my weak arms to lift, over in my room that’s shared with my grandparents.

The adults are so busy, they don't really notice me go. Not enough to comment on it. They're practically always busy, maintaining chores around the house.

I push open the door to my room and head straight for the toys, kept in one corner. I hear the door behind me shut, which is strange. I turn around and see—

Absolutely nothing.

Huh.

I would've noticed if any of the adults were following me. Footsteps are easily felt in this house.

I believe in ghosts. And other entities. Not that I _want_ to. I'm too anxious about those kinds of things. I push the thoughts away. I'm not gonna spook myself into believing I'm being haunted by the unearthly. Turning back around, I fish around in the toybox and bring out a tiny wooden horse. Odds are, Abuelo carved it himself too.

I return to the living room. Or, I try to.

There's a figure blocking my path.

I freeze, my gut somersaults.

“Do not fret, Anchor,” whispers the figure, an amorphous, hazy humanoid shape, “I mean you no harm. I am a friend to you. We will be seeing one another in your dreams.”

With that, it disappears.

Blinking owlishly, I shake.

The bedroom door swings open suddenly, shocking me. It's Abuela. 

Her eyes widen as she takes me in. “(Ay, why do you look so frightened, little one?)”

“(I th-thought I saw a ghost!)” I stammer out.

It's not exactly a fib.

She accepts that and beckons me over, “(Come here, Grandmother will keep you safe.)”

I rush to her, gratefully. Her embrace is comforting.

Dinner is made on time today, just before Papá gets back. I like Papá. He always has a wide smile just for me and it succeeds in making me feel better after Abuela informs him of the incident. 

He reassures me, “(You shouldn't be afraid of ghosts. They are dead, and you are not. They can't do anything to you. If anything, they are jealous of you.)”

It’s good enough for me. My young mind forgets the unsettling encounter completely.

\--

That night, I do dream.

I’m myself again—my twenty-two-year-old girl self. And I’m floating in a black void, dotted with stars and planets. Bizarrely, I can breathe. I look at my own two hands, they are transparent. The whitish humanoid figure that had visited me is here. Without a mouth, it speaks.

“You are being astral projected. I have been assigned to you by the Presence to educate you on your role as the Anchor of the Universe.”

The Presence? The Presence is the Abrahamic God, isn’t it?

Reading my mind, the figure answers, “It is.

“Your soul is the Anchor of the Universe, stabilizing it so that it will not fall apart. You cannot truly die, and you will never age past twenty-five. Your soul is virtually indestructible and has become one with your mind, your body merely a vessel that holds it. It can be harmed and seemingly die, only for the soul to kickstart it back to life immediately after the death, rapidly repairing what was damaged and expelling whatever was inside of it that should not be, like shrapnel. You can only permanently die when you _choose_ to, and in that case, you will be invariably reborn to a newborn body again because the universe _needs_ your soul to exist. It is possible for your soul to exist without a body, but this is not what it defaults to.

“You have omnilingualism, as well. You can understand, speak in, read, and write in any language in the cosmos. This includes bodily language. You have the gift of panmnesia, able to recall absolutely everything you have thought, felt, encountered, and experienced. To preserve your youthful sanity, the panmnesia will not fully activate until your second-self reaches five years of age. It is only partially in use right now, and the memories you are forming now will catch up with you on your fifth birthday. Your soul-mind is reminiscent of a supercomputer, and you can reprogram it into any personality you desire.”

It gives me a gracious pause to absorb all that. It goes on.

“You also have precognizance. It is budding and unpredictable, and it is an ability you have carried over from your first life.”

I...remember that. Words that had to do with something I didn’t know was about to happen would pop into my head randomly. For instance, I’d think the word _duck_ out of nowhere, and less than a moment later, someone would scream _Duck!_ to avoid a flying frisbee coming right for my skull. I could never make it repeat itself and I’d spent hours agonizing over whether it was real or not.

Now I know the truth.

“There is one last ability you possess...it was inherited from your second-father: your healing processes. You can regenerate quickly from wounds and have a far stronger immune system than the average human being.”

My _second-father?_ But he’s just an ordinary man.

“You will come to see, in time.”

I suppose I have to accept that.

“That is the extent of the knowledge of your role I was given. I will be continuing to watch over you for so long as the Presence deems it necessary. Goodbye.”

Wait! What’s your name?

“I have none.”

A beat.

“...I have more secrets for you if you want them. If only because I feel sympathy for you.”

It’s talking more slowly now. For the first time, it sounds like a genuine person.

“You died in Gotham. Batman found your body. You are still in Gotham now.”

\--

I wake up.

 _The_ Batman? The character I adore most out of all the DC Universe?

And I’ve been reborn into a _Gothamite?_

(Mxyzptlk had abducted me to Metropolis. That means the man and the woman had driven the van all the way to Gotham, within a day’s time. That gives me the impression Gotham and Metropolis are fairly near each other. It makes sense, that’s how they’re set up in most continuities. Irrationally, it bothers me a little to know I’m still in the same city that I died in. But Batman’s here! It sends a ray of joy through my heart just to think about it. That makes up for it all…

No…wait…

When I died, it had been the modern-day. My second life is most definitely not in the modern-day. Did I reincarnate _back in time?_ So, Batman hasn’t been _born_ yet?!

The figure did say I’m effectively immortal...)

It seems like I’ve been given so many boons when I don’t deserve them. I had always been afraid of growing old and facing death. Of feeling like I didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, though logically I knew I hadn’t. Now...I’m apparently vital to an _entire reality._

Head swimming with everything I’d learned, the day passes as usual, but there’s a difference. I'm finally being allowed outside the house. Supervised by Mamá and Abuela, of course.

There are _people_ outside.

That should seem obvious, I know, but…

The omnilingualism ability that the figure described to me begins to make sense. Every time someone talks, it's like text is printed in my brain, eloquently detailing the definition of each word. It happens so fast, and yet somehow I can still understand it instantly. What their bodies are saying is no secret either. Every movement, twitch, and blink tells me a whole story. She’s annoyed, he’s captivated, they’re distracted. It's kind of overwhelming. I can read signs on shops as we pass by them.

My entire family is most likely illiterate. I might be the only one who can read or has any idea how to write.

Shady men in hats duck into an alleyway, eyes darting here and there as they do, expecting the worst. There's a hardness to them, a harshness. They have enemies and are on the lookout for them. Mamá sprints to retrieve me and brings me back across the street, not wanting me to be so close to that particular alley. I had wandered so far and not even noticed.

Everything looks so _old._ And the clothing people are wearing matches that oldness. I feel like I’m watching a very accurate period movie or one of those remastered films I sometimes looked for on YouTube that were shot far in the past. A great deal of the buildings have a gothic look to them, and I spot a few gargoyle statues. This is Gotham, indeed.

Staring at the world around, I feel renewed and gleeful.

I am _special!_ Like I never was in my last life. I’m gonna have a _story_ and friendships, and go on adventures, and…

Be everything I never could be before. Nothing holding me back.

This is a superhero world. Anything can happen.

(They couldn’t save you from your first death.)

Well—well...maybe that was simply meant to happen, for a greater purpose.

It feels like a weak rationalization. Suddenly deflated, my own sense of realism betrays me, as it never fails to when I’m happy. Oh, well. Maybe my life won’t be as light and fun as I thought it would be a second ago, but it’ll still be better than my directionless last one. I have to believe that.

In the distance, I can see some white boys a little older than me playing around. Their voices are loud as they shout and shriek. Back in the future, such young children would almost never be allowed outside unattended like this. But this is a different era. I have half a mind to walk up to those boys and ask if I can play with them (maybe I can have _friends_ this life around), but then it occurs to me that I’m a different race than them, and they probably won’t appreciate it. I’m also much younger and more fragile than they are.

That’s going to aggravate me a lot. The racism. But there’s not much I can do about it. At least, not right this moment.

I go around picking up rocks and poking at things. Never approaching a stranger, or going too far away from Mamá and Abuela, who seem to decide I’ve had enough time outside after about thirty minutes. They seem very clannish somehow about it. Like they’re apprehensive of being outside the home whatsoever, more-so with a vulnerable child in tow. Gotham _is_ known as a dangerous place, in most every universe it exists in. It must be even more like that when you’re a minority prior to the days of human and civil rights movements.  
  
I don’t look forward to struggling.

(Batman will fix all my problems when I meet him.

He’s got to.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been with this fic since its beginning, you may notice that there's been a vast change to the first couple of chapters. I rewrote them. I know there are probably a dozen historical inaccuracies here, so please inform me of them if you see them! I'm trying my best to research for this fic on my own but sometimes I still fall short. Honestly, I feel like I'm an inadequate writer in general right now. Con-crit or just plain kudos are always appreciated.


	3. Fifth Birthday

Years go by, and before I know it, I’m five. My date-of-birth is August 1st, 1900, and so the year is now 1905.

Papá got into a spat once with a coworker when I was three, and he came home that day with a story of how he’d wanted to give that man a black eye. Mamá was sympathetic, as she never fails to be. Abuela and Abuelo are getting older, and it was a challenge for Abuelo to hear the story at all. He’s growing deafer and deafer. Abuela has developed worse arthritis than ever before, so when she stood up to close the door behind Papá (he’d forgotten to do it himself, barging through it with anger on his lips) she couldn’t quite make it.

When I was four I met the only other child who I can really call my  _ peer. _ A girl named Carlita. Her family is descended from Mexican immigrants like mine, except they look very criollo, which means that they’re white-passing, so they have an easier time of it with other Gothamites.

Carlita’s more or less the same age as me and her parents are sort of friends with mine. I think. They don’t seem close, but they nod when they see one another, and a few times Mamá has traded kitchen items with Carlita’s mom when they needed to. I stood there and watched the exchanges happen, not paying attention to Carlita the second time. She evidently did not like this and reached out to pinch me in the arm. I blinked at her. She giggled and her mother reprimanded her not to touch people like that, it’s rude. The girl’s face fell, and they left. That was the last time I saw her.

I don’t know much about their family, not even their surname. Or surnames, I should say. I’ve learned the names of the people in my family, by the way. Mamá is Sofía. Papá is Julio. Abuelo and Abuela are Amaro and Guadalupita. 

My full name is Celestino Angelo Pichardo Losano.

In Mexican naming structure, a person can have one first name or two, and then there are the two apellidos, the father’s surname first and then the mother’s. In American naming structure, my mother’s surname wouldn’t matter, so on American documentation, my initials would simply be C. A. P. The same initials I had in my first life. Even with that similarity, it doesn’t quite feel like my name. It might be decades before it does.

\--

My first-dad had worked as a security guard for the Navy until one day, he nearly had to shoot someone. This unnerved him to the point that he quit, and he relied on monthly inheritance checks from his dead mom, my grandma, from then on. Those checks used to be fairly large, but after we moved from California to Texas they started dwindling till we were unable to make apartment rent anymore and moved into a homeless shelter.

At some point during that time I had applied for SSI and was granted it by a judge, who decreed I was unfit to work entirely and should never even try if I wanted to keep my SSI. My first-dad hadn't worked in over a decade by then and I'd never had a job, to begin with, unless you count exactly four baby-sitting stints for a neighbor when I was a teen. I fell asleep during the last one, and the kid's mother never asked for my aid again. You can imagine how stupid I felt.

Well, this is my second lifetime, and instead of birthday candles, presents and singing Happy birthday to you my second-dad wants me to start working in the factory with him, to earn more bread for the table.

I don't quite understand when he first brings it up to me. I'm a solemn and quiet child, most of the time pretty mutely obedient. Observant. Arguably melancholy. I am content with the prospect of staying that way for the rest of my life until I reach adulthood, just hanging around on the sidelines waiting for Batman to make his debut. Adhering to the  _ Children are seen and not heard _ rule that dominates this time period (which is funny, considering I had despised that in my past life; have I really changed so fundamentally?). Papá has other agendas.

"(How would you like to start learning how to be the man of the house, son?)"

Put on the spot, I stutter, "(W-what do you mean?)"

I haven't thought of it in years, but a memory wafts to the forefront:  _ regenerative healing factor. Your second-father is not an ordinary man. _

"(I mean, you'll be coming to the factory with me, to earn money for the family.)"

As he says it, it's like unorganized puzzle pieces click themselves into their proper places in my brain. Holy hell. How did I forget all of this? My eyes get wider and wider. How did I even partially forget who I really am for so long?

The figure wasn't kidding when it told me it would all come back to me on my fifth birthday.

"(I can see you're excited about it,)" he mistakes my expression for a reaction to his words, and those return to me in full force as well. I can't  _ work in a factory! _ I can't work, period, case closed, the judge said I can't—

"(You'll be starting tomorrow.)"

He announces it, and I am awestruck. God, no. Factories in the early 1900s were, are, horrific. I know this because I read it on the Internet. People die or get severely maimed in those things. I don't even know what this particular factory  _ makes. _

What do my second-mother and her parents think of this?! I can't imagine they like it, especially not the women. But, they don't have much of a choice but to go along with it. Julio is the boss of the household. I've never seen anyone but Amaro so much as make polite suggestions to him about his decisions, every once in a while. I'm gonna have to do this whether I like it or not.

I really don't want to.

But I also really know there'll be repercussions for voicing my displeasure. I've never been beaten by anyone in this family, only admonished. The influx of twenty-two-year-old maturity and common sense is making me consider a lot of things I hadn't before. Not that I'd been the cleverest person in my past life, often felt like the opposite. But without that remaining intelligence, I might've thrown a fit with no thought of the repercussions, and who knows what could've happened.

(I might be overreacting. My second-dad probably would've just hummed and told me I was going to work in the factory regardless.)

"(All right,)" is all I can get out, haltingly, then I turn on my heel and head straight for bed. It's late at night after dinner, and I ought to get some extra rest if I'm gonna be on time in the morning. Also, I'm...very tired, since my memories were reactivated. There's a headache sparking in the center of my forehead.

For some reason, my sudden departure makes Papá laugh.

I stop mid-step and look at him. His eyes shine with fondness. I don't know how I ever thought he could mistreat me.

"(Go to bed, son. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.)"

\--

That night, I don’t actually sleep much. Or I do, but the dreams keep me feeling unrested when I finally wake. Bit by inching bit, I'm reliving my past life plus the extra five years of my new life in my sleep. I can feel every toy I held in my hand—my Breyer horse figurines, my plush animal toys—I can feel my fingers running through the fur of the big dog I lived with till she died of a belly tumor on the operating table—I can hear every argument my older half-brother, my first-mom's firstborn child, had with my first-father. I was her second-born and last. I was my first-father's only child. I can remember the first time that my first-father—

I don't want to recall that.

Or the second time—

I don't want to relive that either.

But it's impossible not to. Even as my throat fills up with bile, and horrible, mortified denial overcomes me (just like I'd felt in eighth grade science class, that one day, suddenly remembering it completely and slowly coming to terms with what he'd done to me; bursting into tears in front of everybody and no one asked if I was all right) I cannot stop the onslaught.

I was so little. It was so wrong of him.

The memories keep going, somehow, and it becomes starkly clear to me how much I had buried those two specific memories and refused to deal with them whatsoever. What was I supposed to do? I had still loved my dad in spite of them, despite all his bullshit. Soul-crushing mixed feelings.

I remember the rest: my parents' traumatic divorce when I was eight in San Diego. Living almost exclusively with him and his mom, my grandmother, who never knew how to handle my undiagnosed high-functioning autism, afterward. Watching my mom despair over being declared an unfit mother by a judge. Finally getting to spend weekends with my mom after a long time of her only being able to visit me. Eventually growing accustomed to the new routines. Moving out from Grammy's house because the management of the senior community got tired of complaints from other residents about all the annoying young people living with her. Moving into an apartment with my dad in another part of California.

My mom was so vengeful about the divorce. Vengeful at my dad for taking me away from her. At Grammy for helping him do it. She was always obsessive about me, hyperfixated on me. She wanted me to be her sheltered porcelain doll for the rest of my natural life. That was how Dad described it. She wasn't teaching me what I needed to know (but he didn't, either), like how to take care of myself, he said. She did everything for me. She even pulled me out of school after one of the teachers pinched the back of my neck for disobeying them. The first-grade teacher shouldn't have done that, and they got into trouble for it as they should have.

It's just that Mom never took me back to school after that. She didn't commit to homeschooling me. I think Dad gave up on trying to get through to her after a while, retreating to the master bedroom that he alone slept in, because Mom opted to sleep in my room with me. Just to keep an eye on me at all possible times. So Dad became addicted to the Internet, to video games, to porn, to talking with people in online chatrooms. My older brother was a real tinfoil hat, the type to believe standing too close to a microwave while it's in use damages your third eye or some shit. He was extremely racially bigoted, too, and he wouldn't let me watch shows I loved like  _ That's So Raven _ or  _ The Proud Family _ because of it. 

He never hurt me or got mad at me, even when I challenged his screwed beliefs. He tried to teach me the martial arts he studied. I barely paid attention but sometimes it was fun to pretend I was Jackie Chan. Just before the divorce, Dad placed a restraining order on him because he and my brother got into a worse fight than usual, nearly coming to blows till I screamed my lungs out at them to stop. And they did stop. For my sake.

Mom was heartbroken over being away from me.

Dad pulled me away from her out of concern for how I was being raised.

My brother hated that he couldn't go near me so long as Dad was around.

All three adults claimed to adore me. And I loved them back.

At some point Grammy moved to Houston, Texas, leaving behind my dad and me in Cali. Her three other sons and their families followed her, and when I was twelve, she was dying of a resurgence of breast cancer. Her last wish was for Dad and I to move to Houston so all four of her boys could stay together. So right after she passed, that's what we did, though all but us and her eldest son ended up moving out-of-state anyway. 

Emotionally, at her funeral, I admitted to not knowing her as well as I would've liked to. Dad and I lived in the house she'd died in with one of his brothers, Michael, who was extremely OCD and did not get along with me because I never put things back in the right place.  _ Are you doing this just to spite me? _ He'd demand. He and Dad ended up unable to pay the mortgage on the house and it was foreclosed.

Mom was torn up over the distance between us, but she had started taking antidepressants and she could better cope with it than she might've before. Because Cali was so expensive to live in, she and my brother moved to Tijuana in Baja California, Mexico, which was also where nearly all of her side of the family lived. Her sister, my Aunt Nina, was my favorite relative. She never did anything wrong to anyone in her life. Her grandchild, my second cousin, was my second favorite relative. It hurts me to know that I don't exist to any of them anymore. I was utterly erased from their timeline…

I never got to see if Dad got over himself and started looking for a job instead of relying on my SSI and his small, fluctuating revenue checks he inherited from Grammy. I never got to see my mom again since that four-day visit when I was fourteen. I'd taken a plane flight there and back all by myself (passed out on the first flight due to anxiety). Her sympathetic friends in Cali paid for the whole round trip and she was indebted to them for years. I was so worried I'd never see her again before she died. Both my parents were in their late thirties when they had me. They were getting older every day. How would I ever fare without them both when their times came?

Would my Dad go to Hell for his mistakes?

I didn't want him to.

Maybe if I was anyone else I would've.

(He'd never touch me  _ again, _ I told myself. I was so little. It was fucked up. But he'd never do it  _ again.) _

And he hadn't.

The depression really started to hit me hard after eighth grade. I stubbornly skipped classes and this habit reached a high point in tenth grade. The APs and other staff did everything they could to ensure I would remain where I was supposed to be but time after time I got away. Dad dropped me out of school, entirely. He didn't want to deal with it anymore. It also put a permanent mark on his criminal record, an actual warrant, because it seemed apparent he wasn't doing enough to keep me in school. So he didn't want that mark to get worse.

I…

Was useless.

The inheritance checks Dad received eventually weren't enough to pay our rent in the Houston apartment we moved into after the house with Michael was foreclosed, and we became homeless. We lived in a shelter for two years, between my ages of nineteen to twenty. This shelter was extremely stressful. The old woman in charge of the females' side of it was a temperamental, bossy bitch, who liked to pretend she was a beloved grandma. I played along with her so we wouldn't get kicked out. 

My roommates liked to passive-aggressively bully me and unabashedly talk shit behind my back. I had sensory issues. I'd never liked taking showers because of the way the fast-paced water droplets felt on my skin. Showering was the only option in that place, no baths. Everyone there complained that I stunk and I did. My parents never really taught me much in the way of cleanliness, either, so painstakingly I learned from watching everyone else (or from being lectured by everyone else) what I was doing wrong. Eventually I built up a sensory tolerance for showering. There were  _ some _ good things to come out of that place…

Like how I met my first boyfriend there.

His name was Dustin. He lived there at the shelter too and I talked to him sometimes. He was six years my elder. I was twenty. He asked me out on a date out of the blue one day and startled but flattered, I agreed. Dad liked him. He was funny and had pretty grayish-blue eyes. When Dad and I got accepted into the HUDVASH housing program and managed our own apartment, he moved in with us. He lost his job at the local Food Bank after a few months because he'd failed a drug test. Marijuana. I'd known he did weed, he tried to teach me how to puff properly. I never got the hang of it and had a major freakout from devouring an entire pot brownie he'd snagged from a friend of his and offered to me.

He fell into a depression and spent two months avoiding getting another job. I'd posted on Facebook extensively listing and describing the reasons why I was worried for him and asking for advice about how to approach him about it. He broke up with me upon reading it, telling me I'd hurt his feelings and compared it to him taking a video of me in the shower and posting it online for everyone to see. I think that was a little skewed. We had been together for two years. Just before he left we'd gotten a cat, named Dahlia, and a Catahoula leopard dog mix puppy named Tallulah who I'd adored but struggled to housetrain…

He left. The cat and pup stayed.

I miss my kitty. I miss my doggy.

I miss them all.

So that's where my past life left off. Me, wallowing in mental distress, with a social hermit lard father, a feline, and an overly energetic young dog, at age twenty-two. Desperately wishing a fictional character named Batman, or someone like him in real life, would come to my rescue.

That was when Mister Mxyzptlk kidnapped me.

\--

The second half of my memories are the DC multiversal ones. They are somehow easier to handle. Constantly being updated, showing me that nearly nothing is impossible anymore. I'm not even the only one who knows the "real" world—my original world—exists. The-Batman-Who-Laughs had a copy of a  _ DC Universe _ handbook for a time. The Joker had a tendency to break the fourth wall, at least he did before the  _ Nu52 _ reboot hit. Superboy-Prime actually came from an alternate timeline of my world. I am not alone. But those iterations of the characters are so far away, entire literal cosmos away from me. There's no way for me to reach out to them, and even if there was, it would be no guarantee they'd feel charitable enough.

There are other, more benign characters who may. Phantom Stranger, and Death herself, for two. But they are also distanced. I can't see the history and current events of this Earth I'm on like I can the others. 

The ghostly figure that visited me in dreams when I was younger basically told me that God is on my side. I don't really know what to think about that. It should probably fill me with more confidence than I'm feeling. (I'd tried being pagan, specifically Wiccan, in my past life. It never really clicked, and I'm not sure this will, either.)  _ They _ know about my situation. And so will future-Mxyzptlk, decades from now.

Maybe even Batman will understand, someday. Wishful thinking. But Batmen of other worlds have dealt with multiversal things before, in their quests to save their native realities and perhaps foreign ones too. My heart lights up a bit at the possibility. Then it quashes itself. Lights up. Quashes itself. Lights up one last time. I dare to hope that I might matter to Batman at some point in my life.

I've never met the guy. But I know  _ of _ him. So many universes comprised of endless timelines featuring him. Of all the characters, he's the most amazing to me. Just as easily as he could rescue them, he could destroy worlds if he wished. The Dark Knights from the Dark Multiverse—which I can also see into—are evidence of that. Or he could take over them. All as a mere mortal man who pushes past his limits.

Of course he's not  _ perfect… _ he's got flaws. Obstinate, glaring ones, sometimes. He's also got a family, who stick with him through thick-and-thin. 

So many people fall for him and for good reason. Talia al-Ghūl, Selina Kyle, Andrea Beaumont, Vicki Vale, and Julie Madison, for some of the more notable names. The list is extremely long. Hell, I'm pretty sure it was confirmed by the writers that the  _ Joker's _ in love with him in pretty much every reality. Looking at the in-universe support—in some cases explicit—of that now, I am not surprised. Some of it I've already seen, because of all the fandom ships I'd been absorbed with in my past life, the one everyone collectively called "Batjokes" was one of the highest on the list.

What am I leading up to with this?

I...have a crush on Batman. Well, that's not  _ news.  _ But now it takes on a whole new level.

Who am I? I am a girl reborn into the wrong time and body. Who says someone as huge and busy as the Bat would ever look at me twice, in any sense? He most likely won't. I'm nowhere near his type. But as long as I'm a positive part of his life, I'll be happy, and maybe he'll be better for it, too. ("He's  _ never _ happy," the comic books tried to claim, but he had a whole family and friends...and he even settled into a good, mutual relationship with Selina in Earth-0 and had a  _ baby _ with her, so he had to be at least something close to happy  _ sometimes.) _

I was rarely this optimistic in my last life. It feels as if knowing the DC multiverse to this extent has enlightened and changed me greatly, plus the humbling memories of everything I ever went through before. Even so, my understanding of everything might technically be so vast, yet I still seem, personally, very…

Small.

\--

"(Wake up, son,)" Papá shakes me awake.

I swallow down the bile that had gathered in my throat while I was fitfully sleeping. I could've choked on it. I feel like shit.

There's nothing I can do about it.

So I might as well get up.

"(Good boy,)" Papá praises as I grudgingly sit up and swing my feet over my bed to touch the floor.

I've always been useless. I can't be that way now. This new life won't allow for it. I want to continue wallowing, despairing, loathing. But this is a new lease on life. I can't waste it.

Batman wouldn't like that.

_ Yes, _ I think,  _ That's a good motivator. Stick with it. _

It seems like a destined blessing. A twisted trade of sorts. I lost all I had so I could gain him. The one I'd wished for so hard for so long. Nothing else matters but living long enough so I can meet Batman.

Nothing else.

"(Son, are you paying attention?)" 

I snap out of my stupor. I blink at him.

Papá is looking sternly at me, and gestures at some clothing he's placed onto the end of my bed. "(I said, get dressed. I brought you a uniform like mine.)"

Despite his tone, his voice is hushed. Abuela and Abuelo are still sleeping.

I nod and he leaves the room.

The uniform is just barely my right size.

\--

Mamá is a good cook. She made us both pozole for breakfast.

(It's far more obvious to me now with my memories reactivated that we're terribly poor, even poorer than my last life had been without being on the streets. What's more, there's no Internet, no TV, or so much as an old-timey radio in the home. I preoccupied myself during these five years with nothing but my imagination and scant wooden toys fashioned for me by my abuelo. I hadn't really realized what I was missing. From this point on now that I do realize it, I can foresee myself being very bored in my free time.

Well. I do have crystal clear memories of every entertaining thing I ever experienced. Like films, music, games. I can just relive those if I really have nothing to do.)

I make sure to eat every little last bit of the pozole. I think I am going to be very hungry by the time the long workday is over. Twelve hours, that's how long Papá works, six days a week. I'll come home, eat again, and then sleep in exhaustion. Just like he does. Sundays will be blessed off days. I don't know how much he earns. I probably won't get the same amount.

I still haven't asked what exactly we're gonna be making in this factory we'll both be working in. During these five years, he's never described its products around me. It's almost like it's taboo to bring up the place unless he does first. It utterly slipped my mind, and something about Papá's countenance is still stern, keeping me from breaking the ice.

After that, Mamá gives me a rushed kiss on my forehead as I'm going out the door. Papá reassures her that he'll be watching over me and I'll return home in one piece. Mamá says she trusts him. I think _ I _ trust him. It might be too early to tell if he's a better dad than my last. Thinking a five-year-old can persevere in a factory may be a mark against him.

But a lot of people commonly think that in this era.

Doesn't make it any better.

Shit. Fuck.

I almost mutter the two cusses aloud, but I'm pretty good at being determinedly mute by this point.

The sun is just beginning to rise. Papá waves his hand for me to follow him. I do.

I glance back. Mamá is watching us go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this chapter is far too much information for you. this fic starts at a point in my life just before i converted to Christianity in late 2018, long before the pandemic started. i do forgive my dad and i'm praying to God to help me get past those memories. nearly everyone i've told irl either ignored it or acted like it didn't matter, but is telling an internet full of strangers much better? too late, i've already posted it.
> 
> i no longer have Tallulah the dog unfortunately, but i've still got Dahlia the cat living with me. also if any of this seems awkward...it's because it is. ultimately i was trying to churn from point A to point B. i may go back and edit this someday. this fic is a draft...technically the third draft. 
> 
> i know most people do self-inserts as (usually humorous) aspects of themselves and not their whole-ass, issues-ridden selves like i am trying to do. i am going to delve into subjects that i hardly really see explored in self-inserts -- like the psychological ramifications of living in a previously fictional world that's even more insanely hostile than the last (in my opinion, that can really fuck ya up), mourning the loss of that last life, and, hopefully, eventual healing from those two things. and from my personal problems -- and Celestino's newer ones he acquires as the story goes on -- too.
> 
> i say "hopefully" like there's going to be a lot of pain before we get there. hmm. wonder why. i just hope my writing skills are enough to skate by on for all those lofty goals.


End file.
